His Dangerous Love On Ice Chapter 69: Olive's Pov

My car made a loud screech as I pulled into the Hopkins Company parking lot, tires protesting against the asphalt as I took the turn too fast, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tight my knuckles had gone white.

I took a sharp breath, trying to steady the panic clawing at my chest, and grabbed my sunglasses from the passenger seat—oversized, dark, the kind celebrities wore when they were trying to hide from paparazzi.

I stepped out of the car, ignoring the immediate stares from people in the parking lot. A woman getting out of her BMW. Two men in suits smoking by the entrance. A security guard whose eyes widened the second he recognized me.

I could practically hear their thoughts—‘There she is. The girl from the video. The one who tried to con Zane Mercer.’

Except I hadn't. But they didn't know that.

The second I stepped through the glass doors into the Hopkins Company lobby, every single pair of eyes turned to look at me.

The receptionist's mouth fell open slightly. The intern carrying a stack of files nearly dropped them. Even Margaret from accounting—who usually didn't care about anything that wasn't tax-related—stopped mid-stride to stare.

I could hear their whispers, their murmurs, the sound of my name being passed from person to person like a game of telephone.

"Is that Olive?"

"Oh my god, she actually showed up."

"I can't believe she has the nerve to come here after—"

I ignored them. All of them. Kept my head high, my shoulders back, my sunglasses firmly in place even though we were indoors and I probably looked ridiculous.

But I didn't care. I wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me break.

I wouldn't blame them if they decided to stare all day. If I were in their position, I'd probably stare too. Scandal was entertainment, after all, and I'd just provided the entire office with weeks' worth of water cooler conversation.

My phone pinged again, the vibration loud in the too-quiet lobby.

It was my mother this time.

I sighed, answering the call as I rushed toward Grayson's personal elevator—one of the few privileges I had as his stepdaughter that other staff members didn't.

The second the elevator doors closed behind me, sealing me away from the stares and whispers, I exhaled a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.

Relief. Just for a second. Just long enough to feel almost human again.

I unmuted my mother's call, and her voice immediately flooded my ears, frantic and worried.

"Olive—Olive—god, I've been trying to reach you all morning—"

"Mother, I'm fine," I cut her off, my voice sharper than I intended. I wasn't sure I could handle another lecture right now, another round of we warned you or I told you this would happen.

"No, Olive—" Her voice cracked slightly. "God, I saw the video. I feel so awful. I feel like I've failed you. Like I should've protected you better."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, my throat suddenly tight.

"Mother, I'm heading into a meeting right now," I said, my voice softer this time. "We can talk later, okay?"

The line went silent for a second, and I thought maybe she'd hung up. I was about to check the screen when her voice broke through again—smaller, more vulnerable than I'd ever heard it.

"Olive," she whispered. "I believe you, okay? I know my daughter. And I know you're not the one in that video. I'm not going to lose you over this. Please—will you listen to me?"

For the first time since this entire nightmare started, I felt something crack inside my chest.

Someone believed me. Without me having to explain. Without me having to defend myself or provide evidence or beg to be heard.

My mother—chaotic, overbearing, occasionally embarrassing—believed me.

"Okay, Mom," I said quietly, the tightness in my voice loosening, the tension that had been clawing at my throat finally starting to ease. "What do you need to tell me? I've got less than a minute."

It felt good. Having someone else believe me without needing proof. Without hesitation.

"Remember Hunter's party?" she said quickly. "It's tomorrow night. I want you there, please."

"Mother, I can't," I said immediately. "Now's not the right time—"

"Yes, I know it's not," she interrupted, her voice strained. "But I can't face your stepfather's family alone. Not Janet."

My heart dropped.

"Janet is coming?" I asked, and I could practically see my mother nodding even though I couldn't see her.

Janet—Grayson's older sister. The one who'd never approved of him marrying my mother. The one who still referred to me as "Diane's daughter" instead of by my actual name. The one who made every family gathering feel like a judgment session.

"Yes," my mother said. "And you know how she is."

I did. I knew exactly how she was.

"I'm coming, Mother," I said quietly. "Now I'm late."

I could hear her voice shriek with relief, almost crying. "Thank you, peach."

She hung up.

‘Peach.’

She'd used the nickname my biological father used to call me. The one she never said anymore because it reminded her of him, of what she'd lost, of the man she'd loved before Grayson came into our lives.

Without hesitating, I smiled. My body suddenly felt lighter, the weight on my chest easing just slightly.

The elevator chimed, and my head instantly snapped back to reality.

I had a whole army to face.

Alone.

Maybe not entirely alone.

Because the second the elevator doors slid open, I saw Brenda standing a few feet away, her back to me, her phone pressed to her ear.

Her head snapped toward me the instant she heard the elevator, and her eyes—at first wide and frozen like I'd caught her doing something she shouldn't—immediately softened.

"Olive," she breathed, her voice raspy, a little taken aback.

She ended her call without saying goodbye to whoever was on the other line and practically ran toward me.

"God, I've been looking everywhere for you."

Her eyes were blinking rapidly—too rapidly. A telltale sign I'd learned to recognize over years of friendship.

"Why are you out here?" I asked, staring past her at the large mahogany doors of the main conference room.

"I had a call from Jonathan," she said quickly, her voice tight. "But it's nothing. I decided to wait out here for you so you didn't have to walk in alone."

Her voice sounded sharp. Clipped. Her eyes were still blinking too fast.

She was having a nervous attack.

"Brenda," I said immediately, walking toward her and placing my hands on her shoulders. "You're having a nervous attack. What the fuck did Jonathan do?"

At this point, I didn't care about the conference meeting happening on the other side of those doors. Didn't care that Zane was in there probably causing a wildfire. Didn't care that Grayson was "going feral" according to Brenda's earlier freak-out.

My best friend was having a nervous attack, and that took priority over everything else.

"Brenda," I whispered, pulling her into a hug, my hands smoothing through her hair in the way I knew calmed her down.

"Did Jonathan hurt you?" I asked, instantly pulling back and scanning her body with my eyes, looking for any sign of—I don't know what. Bruises? Tears in her clothes?

"No, no, no," she said sharply, waving her hands frantically, her eyes red-rimmed.

"Then what?" I demanded.

She took a shaky breath. "I think he's going to propose to me."

And instantly, she burst into tears.

I hugged her hard, letting her sob into my shoulder while my brain tried to process what she'd just said.

Jonathan—sweet, patient, perfect Jonathan who'd been dating Brenda for almost two years now. Jonathan who brought her coffee every morning even though her office was twenty minutes out of his way. Jonathan who'd sat through three different career crises with her and never once suggested she was being dramatic. Jonathan who loved her wild personality, her sharp tongue, her tendency to speak before thinking.

Jonathan, who was apparently about to propose.

And Brenda was crying.

"Shouldn't you be happy?" I asked gently, still smoothing her hair.

"Yes, I should," she said, her voice muffled against my shoulder. "I fucking should. He's so perfect. So good. So fucking great."

"Then why are you scared, Brenda?"

I couldn't see her eyes or read her facial expressions—Brenda communicated a lot through her reactions, her eye rolls, her smirks—but now I had to rely on her words alone.

"Because I don't think I'm ready," she whispered. "To get married to him."

I pulled back slightly, enough to see her face. "Then that's perfectly fine. You bring it up to him before he proposes."

But she still had that gleam in her eyes—that dull, haunted look that meant she was spiraling internally.

"I don't know if I can," she said quietly.

"Trust me," I said firmly. "J.T. is great. He'll understand and give you more time. He's not going to pressure you."

She nodded slowly, wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. "Fuck, I'm a mess."

"And I'm more of a mess," I replied, trying to lighten the mood. "My naked video is out there. Allegedly conning Zane Mercer."

Instantly, her eyes turned dark. Sad.

"God, Olive," she said. "I should be the one hugging you. And here I am crying about my perfect boyfriend wanting to marry me. But luckily—"

My phone pinged, cutting her off.

I pulled it out, and my stomach dropped when I saw the name on the screen.

Grayson: Conference room. Now.

I looked up at Brenda, and she nodded.

"Let's go," she said, linking her arm through mine. "I'm right beside you."

And together, we walked toward the conference room doors.